


you just gotta let it go

by lilithqueen



Category: Obsidian and Blood - Aliette de Bodard
Genre: First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nausea, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Acatl suffers an unexpected illness. Teomitl keeps him company while he recovers.
Relationships: Acatl/Teomitl (Obsidian and Blood)





	you just gotta let it go

**Author's Note:**

> title: [i need some sleep - eels](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8TlgTYWOn8%22)

The second day of an illness was the worst.

Granted, the first day had been no garden of roses either. Acatl had gone home at the end of his long working day (two vigils, several hours’ worth of investigations into a nasty murder near the markets, endless accounts to square away) to a hastily-put-together dinner and the comfort of his own mat, but he’d barely lain down for an hour before his guts had begun to cramp and the first swelling of nausea had begun to travel up his throat. He’d thought—hoped—that it would pass. He’d always had a reasonably strong constitution, after all. Perhaps it was merely the heat.

And then he’d started vomiting. _Poison_ had been his first thought, and he’d wiped his mouth and tried to stagger to the door only to faint after a single step. Praise the gods for Ichtaca; the man had heard him groaning as he passed and had leapt into action, sending runners for a healing priest before he could even think about protesting. Not that he’d been doing much thinking by then, honestly—whatever he’d eaten had come back for revenge, and he’d been far too busy trying not to completely disgrace himself. He’d still been retching when the priest of Patecatl had arrived.

 _At least it wasn’t poison,_ he’d thought bitterly when he’d gotten the diagnosis. But the sort of illness you got from food that had gone off was downright humiliating, and to make matters worse the only cure was rest and plain meals. _Plain._ No chili. No other spices. Barely even any _salt._ If he’d been able to contemplate food without feeling nauseous again, he would have been miserable; as it was, he was waking only to drink water and drag himself to the chamber pot.

Because apparently, even when whatever had been in his guts was now quite comprehensively out of them, it had left its mark behind. He was _exhausted._ Even his experience with the plague hadn’t left him feeling quite this flattened; each limb felt like the Great Temple had come down on top of it, and he could barely rouse himself from his mat. When he spoke, he slurred his words like a base drunkard.

And of course he was forced to speak, because he had visitors.

He was awoken shortly after dawn by the arrival of not one but _two_ priests of Patecatl. Their cloaks marked them as part of the upper echelons of their temple’s hierarchy, and so he managed not to actually snap at them when they entered. It felt like an achievement just to speak coherently. “Thank you, but I’m feeling much better—“

The older one gave him a stare so full of judgement that he shut his mouth with a pang; it reminded him too much of Ceyaxochitl. “We have to monitor your condition, Acatl-tzin. You _are_ our High Priest for the Dead.”

 _Right. I don’t stop being High Priest for the Dead, no matter how sick I am._ He made a face, but grudgingly sat up a little straighter. _Or how much I’d rather be left alone._

At least submitting himself to a full examination didn’t require him to do much except be manhandled, and the healing priests were coolly professional and not inclined to make small talk. It still tired him out, and when the younger priest—Cuetzpalli, apparently—began casting a spell to strengthen his stomach, he actually found himself dozing off. The cut-grass smell of Patecatl’s magic was remarkably soothing when you were more than semi-conscious for it.

“Acatl-tzin?”

He blinked awake. Cuetzpalli had stopped chanting and was eyeing him with mild concern as he offered a hand to help him sit up again. He ignored it; he was not so far gone that he couldn’t manage that, even if the motion made his muscles ache. “My apologies. What’s the verdict?”

Cuetzpalli didn’t seem fazed by his curtness. No doubt he’d seen much worse, though he was barely a few years older than Teomitl; healing priests saw people at their very lowest, after all, and an irritated High Priest probably wasn’t even worth noting. “No poison nor magic that we can detect. Your dinner seems to have simply...disagreed with you. You’ll feel...ah, reasonably terrible for a week or so, but you are in no danger.” His face twisted in singularly unhelpful sympathy.

Acatl’s fists clenched in his lap. _A week? Duality, I cannot afford to be laid low for that long!_ Horrible visions of his temple in disarray and the boundaries crumbling like old paper flickered through his mind, and he fought a grimace. No. It would be fine. He would return to his duties tomorrow, suffer through bland food until his guts settled, and everything would be _fine._ “Hrm.”

“You’ll be alright, young man.” The older priest—Necalli—didn’t smile, but his eyes softened slightly as he looked him over. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

He couldn’t make any promises, but he was spared from having to lie; their visit apparently being over, Cuetzpalli was packing up their supplies. Soon they had both left, bowing very politely, and he’d collapsed on his mat again. Some vague twinge in his belly suggested he should attempt food, but even fetching one of the bland flatbreads Ichtaca had left for him seemed like a monumental effort. No, he would just lay here for now until he felt...well, not _better,_ but at least more alert.

He slept. He woke, found the ache in his stomach had progressed to actual pangs of hunger, and choked down a few mouthfuls of dry flatbread and a cup of water before his gorge rose in protest. _Right. No more food for me._ He slept again. Time ceased to have meaning. There was only the sunlight moving across his floor, the humid air laying on his skin like a blanket. He lay like a lizard on his back, gently baking in the heat.

And then the entry curtain jingled. “Acatl?”

 _Oh, gods._ Mihmatini’s voice. Groaning, he heaved himself upright, muscles protesting. “Ngghhh…” At some point he’d closed his eyes, and it seemed to take real effort to keep them open. Duality, he hoped it was _only_ an ill-chosen meal, and not something more serious.

She sounded concerned. He was sick of concern. “We brought soup.”

 _...We…?_ The thoughts floating through his head were slow to arrange themselves into a semblance of order, but finally he realized that she wasn’t alone and managed to wedge his eyes open. There was Mihmatini, brow furrowed, holding a clay jug in both hands. And beside her, face twisted in worry, was Teomitl. “...Oh.” He felt vaguely nauseous again.

She didn’t wait for him to invite her in, or even to rise; he watched, still feeling three steps behind reality, as she set the jug down on his table and went looking for spoons. “I really can’t believe I had to hear from Ichtaca that you were ill, Acatl, really—do you know how worried I’ve been? Food poisoning is nothing to dismiss!”

“It’s passed.” It had. Mostly. He had decided against making any sudden movements.

“ _Nobody_ gets over food poisoning that fast.” That was Teomitl, leaning in the doorway and frowning down at him. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

He frowned back, even as some part of his heart felt unaccountably warmed; Teomitl’s concern might be touching, but by the Duality it wasn’t as though he’d _tried_ to get sick. “...I take care of myself just fine.”

Teomitl turned his face away, glowering at the wall as though it had insulted his honor. Acatl knew by the face he made that he was probably chewing on the inside of his lip plug again; he wondered, not for the first time, if Teomitl had ever realized he only did that when he was agitated. He hoped he didn’t; it was oddly endearing, and he’d miss the sight. “What did the healing priests say?”

He grimaced at the reminder. “Very plain fare. And sleep.”

Mihmatini uncovered the jug, and the odor of plain, hot, and—suddenly most important for his stomach, which growled loudly enough that he blushed— _salty_ turkey broth met his nostrils. “Do you think you could keep this down?”

For his sister, he’d try. Slowly, he nodded. “...Thank you.”

He hadn’t expected them to linger, but—evidently realizing that he absolutely wouldn’t be able to finish all of the soup by himself—they took their own seats at his table. It was pleasant not to eat alone in his own house for once. Teomitl was uncharacteristically quiet and kept glancing at Acatl out of the corner of his eye; before he thought of commenting on it, Mihmatini spoke up. “How is it?”

He looked down at his bowl and realized with a start that he’d nearly finished it. Each lift of the spoon to his mouth had been like trying to move a boulder, but he’d clearly been hungrier than he thought. “...It’s good. Did you make it?”

Mihmatini snorted, shaking her head. “From the palace kitchens. I’m not _this_ good a cook.”

Teomitl huffed, “You’re a wonderful cook.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “And _you_ are a shameless flatterer.”

“I am being perfectly truthful—tell her, Acatl!”

Acatl blinked. He’d briefly felt himself in danger of falling asleep in his soup bowl, and it took him a moment to reapply himself to the conversation. True, Mihmatini was a skilled cook—but it was equally true that no priest of Patecatl would prescribe her food for him. It had entirely too much flavor, and the way _she_ made soup would put meat back on the bones of a corpse. “...He’s right. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m in no state to appreciate it at the moment.”

She looked supremely unimpressed. He could actually see the moment she swallowed a sharp retort and picked up her spoon again. “I can see that. You look awful.”

He _felt_ awful. Eating had helped briefly, but as soon as it settled in his stomach he had to battle another spike of nausea. If he stopped leaning on the table, he had a feeling he’d fall over. “Thanks.”

Mihmatini sighed, pushing her now-empty bowl away. “I wish I could stay, but I have to get back to the Duality House.”

“Guardian lessons?”

She made a face. Acatl couldn’t blame her; she hadn’t told him much of what her unexpected ascension to Guardianship had entailed, but what little she’d let slip suggested it was unpleasant. If nothing else, she was having to learn in weeks what took most women years. He did not envy her. “Guardian lessons.”

Teomitl reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see you later.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and for a moment Acatl was concerned. Had they had a fight at some point? But then she smiled, warm as always. “You’d better. Remember what we were talking about earlier.”

Teomitl swallowed hard and nodded. “Mm.”

And then she rose gracefully, favoring Acatl with that same narrow-eyed assessing look. “And as for _you,_ you’d better take it easy. Ichtaca told us you collapsed a few times last night.”

It wasn’t like he’d made a habit out of it. Besides, the floor had been comfortable even with last night’s nagging, irrational concern that he might fail to wake up. He glared back at her. “I’m much stronger now. I’ve no intention of fainting on anyone.”

“Don’t worry.” Teomitl smiled, and the brief flash of radiant warmth made Acatl’s face heat. “I won’t let you.”

She sniffed, unswayed. “Hm. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

And then Mihmatini left, and they were alone. Acatl found, suddenly, that he couldn’t quite manage to look Teomitl in the face. The gods knew Teomitl had seen him injured before—had taken care of him, even, and Acatl knew he’d never forget confident hands bandaging his wounds or strong arms helping him to safety—but injuries were one thing. It was entirely different to be ill and run-down in front of Teomitl, who valued strength so highly, when he could barely muster the energy to stand. _In a moment. In a moment I’ll get up and clear the table. I don’t need a—a_ nursemaid, _Tlaloc’s lightning strike me._ He just needed to brace himself and move slowly.

Teomitl beat him to it. He was already on his feet and clearing away the remnants of their meal when Acatl set a hand on the table to heave himself up; when he caught sight of the movement, he glared down at him. “Stay still. I’ll handle it.”

He could force himself to his feet; he’d worked in worse conditions and through much greater pain. But somehow, it didn’t really seem worth it to argue. So he stayed where he was and prayed for patience. “...So you’re to keep me company, then?”

Teomitl turned to look over his shoulder at him, eyes dark and serious. “Someone should.”

He took a slow breath. Even through his exhaustion, the reminder of his state stung bitterly. _Gods, isn’t it bad enough that I’m ill? Must I have witnesses?_ “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“I know you aren’t.” And then Teomitl smiled, teasingly innocent, and Acatl’s heart skipped a beat even as he continued, “But isn’t it the job of the student to tend to his master’s needs?”

His eyes narrowed. Irritation was starting to revitalize him; in some small part of his mind, he suspected this was Teomitl’s plan. “...And _you_ aren’t my student anymore.” _He hasn’t been since...the courtyard? No, before that. It just took me too long to see it. He is my friend, my brother-in-law, and one day he’ll be my Revered Speaker. But he’s not my student, and he shouldn’t have to take care of me even if he was._

Teomitl sat down by him, within arm’s reach but not touching. Acatl found himself glad for that; he wasn’t sure if he was alert enough not to give in to any...urges he might have. His _former_ student’s shoulders looked appealingly solid. “I know that, too. But...let me anyway?” He paused, looking him over with soft eyes. “Please?”

Oh, no. Not the _please_. It struck him harder than a physical blow, and he had to look away. Duality preserve him, he’d thought those feelings would fade; it was a terrible time to be proven wrong. _I should be stronger than this._ “...I won’t…” He blinked, suddenly almost too tired to make his tongue work. The soup had only been a temporary boost after all. “’M sorry. I won’t be a very good host.”

“...That’s alright.” Teomitl was smiling at him again, and he couldn’t bear it. “Rest, Acatl. I’ll be here when you wake.”

He couldn’t let that pass without comment, no matter how much that same small, treacherous part of him was warmed by the thought of companionship. “...Your own duties…”

Now Teomitl did reach over, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. It warmed him to his bones. “Over for the day. Lay down.”

He couldn’t do anything but obey. Even the simple act of sitting up and eating had wrung him out like a damp rag; he could have passed out on a bed of obsidian shards. His thin mat was a miracle in comparison, and he managed to keep his eyes open just long enough to watch as Teomitl settled down on his haunches and swept him with a slow, considering look. The thought that slid through his mind like a snake— _gods, you could kiss me if you wanted_ —still wasn’t a match for the tides of sleep pulling him under.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was Teomitl’s back. It was, he thought idly, a very nice back; he’d shed his cloak for the sake of the heat, and so Acatl had an excellent view of the line of his waist and the curve of his spine. There were no scars upon it, for he would never be one to willingly turn his back on a foe. The knowledge lifted his heart with a kind of soft pride. _My fearless man. You who will lead Tenochtitlan to glory. I cannot wait to see what kind of Emperor you’ll make._

Then Teomitl stretched, back arching, and the affection curling gently through him sparked into something hotter and darker. Gods, he’d almost forgotten. He could go days now without thinking about the warmth of Teomitl’s voice or the strength of his hands, but here he was being reminded—viscerally—that they couldn’t be ignored forever.

He must have made a noise, because Teomitl turned to look at him. “Acatl? Ah, you’re awake. What do you need?”

His mouth had gone dry at some point. Swallowing didn’t help. “...Water.” If nothing else, it would be cold. He could use the cold.

Teomitl rose to fetch water, and he busied himself with trying to sit up. It took a few attempts as his heavy limbs fought his control, but by the time Teomitl returned he’d managed the disgustingly difficult task of rolling over. Teomitl’s hand between his shoulderblades steadied him as he heaved himself up the rest of the way, and for a long moment he drank in silence.

It wasn’t until Teomitl took his hand away and sat down next to him that he found words. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Teomitl jerked away, glaring at him; for all that he’d only spoken the truth, Acatl still felt himself flush. “Did you think I would leave you alone?!”

“It must be late.” It was. The afternoon sun had turned dim and gold, sinking into Teomitl’s skin and hair. Sunset couldn’t be far behind, and he would be well enough to properly offer blood to the gods again. There was no need for Teomitl to watch over him like a mother jaguar with cubs. _But he wants to,_ whispered his mind, and he took another sip of water to cool the heat of his skin.

“I don’t care.” Duality, and he growled like a jaguar, too. Though he huffily turned his face away, Acatl saw his hand twitch; it was all the warning he got before it came down to rest atop his own free one. “You stayed with me when I was ill, and that was _contagious._ Do you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”

He couldn’t think. Teomitl’s hand was on his, calloused and warm, and he was fairly sure all sensation in his body had been rerouted to that single point of contact. He was surprised he hadn’t dropped the cup, and managed to set it down before he could. “I—uh.” _He was unconscious, deep in his delirium. I didn’t think he’d remember._ _Gods, I was so afraid he’d never even wake._ _But he did...and…_

It seemed to take an eternity for him to dredge up a full sentence from the mire of his thoughts. “You don’t...have to…”

Teomitl might as well have been making a royal proclamation; his voice held nothing but certainty. “Yes. I do.”

“...Oh.” It seemed to be all he could say. There was more locked behind his teeth— _you are the best of men, I don’t deserve you, you’re a reckless fool sometimes but that’s alright because you still hold my whole heart_ _safe_ _in your hands_ —but he didn’t dare open his mouth and let it fly out. If he started down that road, he’d never stop.

For a long while, Teomitl was silent. Though he sat as still as a statue, the fingers covering Acatl’s own twitched as though he wanted to curl them around his hand. Finally, still without looking at him, he spoke. “When I heard you had been taken ill...gods, Acatl, I was terrified.”

Storm Lord’s lightning blast him. He couldn’t even attempt a reassuring smile, for Teomitl’s words struck him to the core. Still, he mustered up the energy somewhere to make an effort. “I’ve felt worse than this and lived. You needn’t have worried.”

Teomitl swiveled around to glare at him, eyes hot and suspiciously bright. “Don’t say that! Don’t you know how important you are to me?”

“Ngkh.” He knew he was blushing again, but he couldn’t have torn his eyes from Teomitl’s face if his life had depended on it. “I…” _I am High Priest for the Dead. His teacher. His friend. That’s all he means._ “But—“

“No _buts.”_ Teomitl shook his head, squeezing his hand tightly. “You _have_ to take care of yourself, Acatl. Understand? I don’t...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. I _can’t_ lose you.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, and for a dizzying moment he thought he was going to faint again. “You won’t.” He knew as he said it that it was an empty promise, but it was true. _Even if I die tomorrow. Even if I die right now, he’ll_ _never lose me._

He inhaled. _I have to tell him._ “Last night...I thought I was going to die.” It had been a fleeting thought somewhere between the second time he’d collapsed and the dozenth time he’d vomited, but it had stuck with him until he’d simply been too tired to fear it anymore. There was only one thing he would have regretted, after all. Now Teomitl was staring at him in horror, but he made himself press on. “And I thought of you. I thought—if I died here, I would never get to tell you I—“ But courage failed him, and he swallowed with a dry click.

Teomitl was still staring at him. “...Acatl?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. It was a coward’s move, but then he had always been one, hadn’t he? “I love you. I wanted to be sure you knew.”

He heard a slow, deep breath. A shaky whisper of “Acatl,” more shock than outrage.

And then Teomitl kissed him.

His mind went entirely blank. There was only the soft pressure of warm lips on his, slow and careful and gods, so _gentle._ He had no idea what he was doing, but Teomitl clearly did; he tilted his head just so, parted his lips just a fraction, and Acatl was lost. _Gods,_ he thought dizzily, _I love you so much._ Teomitl slid strong arms around his waist, and for a moment he thought that hold was the only thing keeping him upright. He wondered if it was possible to swoon just from a single kiss.

When Teomitl pulled away, his eyes were shining. “I can hardly believe...Duality, Acatl.” He gave a little shake of his head, as though to express the utter impossibility of their situation. “I was half convincing myself to give up.”

Acatl blinked at him as the words rearranged themselves into something that made sense. “You... _what?!”_

Now it was Teomitl’s turn to blush. “I have wanted you for—gods, for years. I knew it was hopeless, but when I thought I would lose you…”

Things clicked slowly into place in Acatl’s mind. _Years, he said. Years._ “...Does Mihmatini know?” He remembered her hard-eyed stare, the way Teomitl had looked almost nervous. He wouldn’t be the cause of strife between them, no matter how much Teomitl made his heart race.

Teomitl sighed, dropping his gaze. He was still flushed, but Acatl judged it more embarrassment than guilt. “She does.”

“Then...what she mentioned, about you two having spoken earlier…”

“She...suggested I consider the possibility of mentioning my feelings.” Knowing Mihmatini, _suggested_ was probably far too polite a word. But Teomitl quirked up a smile, then, and added, “But I wasn’t expecting you to beat me to it.”

He swallowed. “I had to let you know. You have to know—you’ll never lose me. Ever. I love you too much for that.”

For a moment, Teomitl simply stared at him—face flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes heated—and Acatl knew he was going to be kissed again. Knew it and welcomed it, lingering illness be damned. He would figure out a way to be kissed by Teomitl if he were _dead._

And then he grinned teasingly and murmured, “Then you’d best focus your energies on getting well again, hadn’t you?” and Acatl had to stifle an urge to groan.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I actually love writing Mihmatini but I don't do it often because I am honestly afraid I might love her TOO MUCH and get distracted from what I am here for (teocatl).
> 
> 2) Acatl's illness is based on a True Story. To this day I cannot eat fettuccine alfredo without being nauseous (again) and that was a year ago. Unlike Acatl, I was less "semi-stoic grumbling" and more "loud, sustained whining and certainty I was going to die." It would've been nice to have a Teomitl to fuss over me!
> 
> want to yell abt obsblood? find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ship_to_hell/) or [tumblr](https://notapaladin.tumblr.com/)


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